The medicinal herbs hang in bundles from the rafters, their bitter scent mingling with the incense burning before our household shrine. Outside, the late summer rain patters against the courtyard stones, matching the irregular rhythm of Zijing's breathing from the inner chamber. I smooth the front of my robe, fingers lingering on the embroidered peonies my mother stitched for my wedding trousseau.

'How is he this morning?' I ask the physician as he packs his acupuncture needles into a bamboo case.

He strokes his beard, eyes grave. 'The fever has not broken. We must still watch for plague symptoms.'

Plague. The word hangs in the air like the damp mist rising from Dongting Lake. My husband, the great strategist Lu Su, reduced to another victim of this summer's pestilence sweeping through Lukou.

A commotion at the gate interrupts my thoughts—a messenger from the palace, his robes bedraggled from the rain. My pulse quickens. In times of illness, imperial messengers never bring good news.

'Lady Lu,' he says with a perfunctory bow, 'His Majesty requests your husband's counsel on the situation with Guan Yu. The general's forces mass at Yiyang, and we need Zijing's strategic insight.'

I glance toward the inner chamber where my husband lies semi-conscious, his usually brilliant mind clouded by fever. The fate of Wu hangs in the balance, and our most valuable strategist cannot leave his bed.

The messenger's eyes锐利地 assess me, weighing my worth as an intermediary. 'Perhaps you could convey General Lu's thoughts to His Majesty?'